Golden Filly Collection One (27 page)
Only the clock dial glowed in the darkened room. Light from the hall showed David huddled on the bed, facing the opposite wall.
Trish set the tray down on the desk and switched on the lamp. “David, I’m sorry for hollering at you like that.”
“Yeah.” He flinched when he tried to push himself against the headboard. “Me too.”
Trish could tell he’d been crying. Was he feeling as wretched as she was? Did he ever get mad at God and the cancer like she did? If so, he never said anything about it. Was he mad that he didn’t get to go back for his second year in college? If only she dared ask him all these questions.
“Here’s your dinner,” she said instead, handing him the bowl and bread. “I’ll get some ice for your hand.”
As she wrapped the ice bag in a towel to hold it in place, she asked, “Do you think anything’s broken?”
David shook his head. “No.”
“What’s Mom gonna say?”
“I’ll just tell her it was an accident.” He spilled some spaghetti on his shirt.
Any other time Trish would have giggled at the look of disgust on his face. Her neatnick brother didn’t spill. But then he hadn’t had to eat left-handed before.
“David,” Trish paused, trying to choose the best words. “About the racing…” She met his gaze, not willing to back down. “I…I wouldn’t have done it if we didn’t need the money so bad. It’s just like other kids who have jobs after school.”
“Yeah, but other kids have their parents’ permission.”
“I know. And other kids don’t make near the money I do.”
“That has nothing to do…”
“With it? Yeah it does. For us it does.” She picked up the empty dishes.
“I’m not gonna race forever—without permission, I mean. I’ll talk to Dad as soon as he gets home.”
“Are you going to ride again?”
She nodded. “Tomorrow.”
“You racing again?” Rhonda asked at the lunch table.
“Um-mmm,” Trish mumbled around a bite of tuna salad. “You want to come with me? You could help exercise in the evening too. Gatesby needs a rider, and it’s so late when I get home.”
“Okay. I’ve a show this weekend, so I won’t be jumping tonight.” She picked up her tray to leave. “You told your mom and dad yet?”
Trish shook her head. “Dad’s coming home Friday. I’ll tell him then.”
“Hard, huh?”
“Yeah. I’ve always told him everything. Last night David and I really got into it. I’ve felt like screaming at anything…and everybody. Or crying. But if I start, how’ll I ever stop? The only time I ever feel good anymore is when I’m on a horse.”
Trish really felt good after the first race. Another win. The horse exploded under her in the backstretch and they won by two furlongs. Mr. Diego slipped her an envelope with fifty dollars in it. That was on top of her share of the purse.
Her second mount was for Rodgers Stables, so she changed silks quickly. She was ready when the trainer brought a gray gelding into the saddling paddock.
“Hey, you look like Dan’l.” She waited for the horse to finish inspecting her. “He’s one of my best buddies.” She kept up a flow of conversation while she stroked the horse’s neck and head.
“Dundee’s been racing for three years,” Rodgers said when he joined them. “He had a bad spill last season and strained his shoulder, so this is his first time out again.”
Trish listened carefully to the instructions, but her hands never ceased their stroking and rubbing, communicating her care for the horse. Her favorite fragrance filled her nose—horse, along with dust and saddle leather.
The noise of the crowd faded into the background, replaced by jangling bits, stomping hooves, and the sharp whinny of a high-strung contender.
The gray blew in her face, his breath warm and damp. Trish mounted, feeling like she and the horse were already one. The gray settled deep on his haunches as the gate clanged shut. Trish stroked his neck one more time, the thrill of the moment tingling through both of them.
Dundee broke clean, but within four strides was trapped in the middle of the field. The only alternative was to pull back, away from the surging haunches in front and around them. Just as Trish tightened the reins, Dundee stumbled, clipped by another horse.
Trish instinctively held his head up, using all her strength and determination to keep the animal on his feet. He faltered. Stumbled again.
“Come on, Dundee,” Trish pleaded. “You can do it.” By the time he regained his footing, the field had left them a furlong behind.
Dundee straightened out again, ears laid back. Each stride and heave of his mighty haunches hurled them closer to the trailing pack. One by one, he passed the spread-out field. By the stretch he inched up on the third-place rider. Trish rode high over his shoulders, giving him every advantage.
“Come on, Dundee, you can do it.” She felt him reach further. He settled deeper, intent as they pulled into second place. They caught the front runner by the last furlong pole. Nose to tail, nose to haunches, nose to neck.
The other jockey went to the whip.
They flew across the finish line stride on stride.
“And that’s number four to win and three to place.” The announcer’s voice could barely be heard over the heaving of her mount.
“Sorry, boy, you gave it all you had. If the race had been even three yards longer, you’da made it.” Trish pulled him down to a slow gallop, then an easy canter as she swung back to the exit gate. Dundee pricked his ears and tossed his head.
“Some race, Trish.” Jason Rodgers met her at the weighing platform. “I thought for sure he was going to go down, but you kept him on his feet.”
“Sorry we didn’t win.” Trish stepped on the scale. “But that horse is all heart. He gave it everything he had, we just ran out of track.”
“I know.” Rodgers slipped her an envelope. “You earned it,” he said at her surprised look. “And I have a mount for you Saturday, and one on Sunday.”
“I’ll have to check what races we’re in.”
“I already did. Thanks, Trish.” He started to leave. “Oh, and say hi to your dad for me. Tell him thanks for raising such a promising jockey.”
“Thank you, Mr. Rodgers.” Trish waved as the tall man strode off.
“Are you Tricia Evanston?” A voice by her side brought her back.
“Yes.”
“Come on, Trish.” Rhonda handed Trish her bag. “Brad’s got the car waiting outside the gate.”
“Okay. Okay.” She turned to the slender woman who’d asked her name. “I’ve gotta hurry.”
“I’ll walk you out. How many races have you won now?” The woman fell into step beside Rhonda and Trish.
“Uh…” Trish counted in her head. “Six, I think.”
“And how long have you been racing?”
“A couple of weeks.”
“Why do you think you’re doing so well?”
“I just seem to understand the horses, I guess,” Trish said. “You a jockey?”
“No, I’m a…”
“Come on, Trish,” Brad hollered. “It’s gonna be dark soon.”
“Sorry, I gotta run.” Trish dashed across the gravel to Brad’s car.
“Who was that?” Brad asked as he drove out of the parking lot.
“Beats me.” Trish and Rhonda both shrugged.
When Trish settled deeper into the seat, the words of Jason Rodgers came into her mind.
His compliment sure felt good.
She pulled the envelope from her pocket and opened it. “A hundred dollars!” She swiveled in the seat to stare at Rhonda.
“Wow!” Rhonda grinned at the sight of the five twenty-dollar bills. “Hey, there’s a note too.”
Trish read it aloud. “I know things are tight right now for all of you. Hope this helps a little. Thanks. Jason Rodgers.” Trish felt the sting of tears behind her eyes. What a wonderful thing for him to do. If only she could show the note to her father right now.
At least she wouldn’t be visiting him tonight. It was hard enough to keep the information from him when they spoke on the phone.
I never knew lying could take so much time and energy,
she thought.
What a mess I’ve gotten into.
The next afternoon Trish flew into the house. All the family cars lined the driveway. “Dad?” She dumped her books on the counter and headed for the living room. “Wow! It’s so good to have you home.”
Her father raised his recliner with a thump. There was no smile on his face. His arms remained at his sides.
Trish dropped to her knees beside the chair. “Dad?” her voice squeaked.
Hal handed her the sports section of the local newspaper. The headline read “Local Girl Rides to Win.”
S
o much for a happy homecoming.
Trish skimmed the first paragraph, and knew. The photo of her and
Bob Diego in the winner’s circle was a dead giveaway, one she couldn’t argue with. She kept her eyes on the paper, but rather than read the rest of the copy, her brain scrambled for an out.
“Well?” Her father prodded.
“I was going to tell you as soon as you got home.” Trish dropped the paper on the hearth and straightened her shoulders. She could feel the tears gathering at the back of her throat. She swallowed—hard. No crying this time.
“All I’ll say now, Tricia…”
She swallowed again. It had been a long time since her father used her full name, and in such a stern voice.
“…is that I’m—we’re”—he took her mother’s hand—“disappointed, deeply disappointed, in what you’ve done. I know you have to load those horses, so we’ll discuss this when you get home. Understood?”
Trish nodded. One glance at her mother’s flashing eyes and rigid jaw warned her that the discussion would
not
be comfortable. Trish looked at her father again. He’d leaned back in the recliner, eyes closed, as if he didn’t want to look at her.
Trish ran from the room before the tears spilled over.
She would not let them see her cry.
David had an I-warned-you look about him when she got down to the stables. He’d already backed the trailer in place for loading.
Trish leaned against Spitfire, both arms around his neck. The colt bobbed his head and rubbed his chin against her back. With her cheek against his mane, she breathed in the comforting odor of warm horseflesh. The quiet stalls, except for Gatesby rustling straw in the adjoining box, offered her the peace of mind she needed to handle the hours ahead. Trish took a deep breath.
Well, Dad. I did the best I could. I guess—no, I know I should have gone to you first, but I didn’t. All I can say is, I’m sorry.
With the decision made, she clipped the lead to Spitfire’s halter and led him out and into the trailer.
